Time Served
by Juxtaposie
Summary: A PDA citation and half a night in jail are preferable to a crying girlfriend. Blues.


**Time Served: In Which Boomer Learns That Being A Passable Boyfriend is Harder Than Upholding the Law  
**

_A PDA citation and half a night in jail is preferable to a crying girlfriend._

* * *

Bubbles had put up with a lot for Boomer's sake. She'd known exactly what she was getting into the first time she'd let him kiss within ten blocks of the school, and though she'd spent the entire week previous steeling herself for the maelstrom that she knew would follow, it had still managed to knock the wind out of her. The disparaging looks and the blaring silences every time she'd walked into the girls' locker room had been easy to brush off, but Buttercup's merciless teasing had managed to find more marks than usual, and Blossom's initial reaction – which had been to chant "No!" a few dozen times, with a couple of "Absolutely not!"s thrown in for variety – though not unexpected, had still stung. Even the outright hostility she'd received from Boomer's brothers had suddenly seemed more personal. Blossom had since moved on to quiet disapproval, which would have been easier to endure if Bubbles hadn't had to see the same look on the Professor's face every time Boomer's name had passed her lips. _That_ had hurt, and even though she hadn't gotten the look in almost a month, it _still_ hurt. She'd taken a lot of flak for him, and she'd been happy to do it, but this – this _really_ took the cake.

And it was taking every ounce of goodwill she had in her body to keep from slugging him.

He was watching her, scowling from under his bangs, the toes of his sneakers scuffing in the dirt on the unswept floor. The whole tiny room was like that: unswept. All the dust had turned her white flats a dingy shade of yellow-brown. She'd been staring at them for nearly twenty minutes, because if she had to watch him hitch his shoulders and roll his eyes one more time like she was _inconveniencing him_ she was absolutely going to lose it.

Deep down, Bubbles knew it wouldn't be long. Boomer could no more keep his mouth shut than the sun could keep from rising, and he'd been unusually quiet the past quarter hour. In the last minute he'd traded the scuffing for bouncing both legs, and the bench they were sharing was vibrating beneath her. He'd been drumming his fingers against the cheap aluminum from which the bench was constructed almost since they'd first sat down, and he was starting to remind her of a caged animal, but she banished that thought instantaneously. If he wanted sympathy, he was fishing in the wrong place.

Finally, Boomer broke the silence. "This is so stupid," he groaned, adding just a little more slouch to his posture, eyes roving across the ceiling. "I still don't see why we can't just leave. I haven't been in a jail cell this long since... I can't even remember!"

"I've _never_ been in a jail cell," she ground out, still staring at her ruined shoes. "So deal."

"So let's get out of here!"

"I'm not breaking any more laws tonight."

He shook his head and muttered, "The things I do for you."

Well, that did it. "Excuse me?" she demanded shrilly, turning her head so quickly her neck popped.

"I came all the way out to this po-dunk town," he went on, purposely ignoring her, "and I let you drag me to the most rinky-dink little venue I've ever seen, and I didn't say a word when you wanted to take a walk after the show - _even though_ when we get home late John always looks at _me_, like _I_ was the one who kept you out past curfew, and now here I am, sitting in a jail at one in the morning in the middle of ass-end nowhere, when I could _literally_ get up and walk through the wall!"

"Well maybe if you hadn't told that policeman to screw off," she reminded him. The words came out louder than she'd intended.

"I didn't tell him to screw off," he corrected, scowling up at the grimy light panels. "I distinctly remember using the word 'fuck'. I told him to fuck off. We could be making out right now!"

"We _would_ be making out right now," Bubbles was dangerously close to jumping off the bench and shouting while stamping her feet like a child throwing a tantrum, "if you hadn't mouthed off to the cop! He's probably going to call my house and keep us here overnight and then I'm going to be grounded until I'm thirty and we'll probably never see eachother again and no criminal will _ever _take me seriously _just_ because you couldn't shut the hell up and let me sweet talk him out of writing that citation! Which I'm _still_ only paying half of, by the way!"

She was starting to get to him. She could see it in the set of his jaw. "Writing people up for kissing in public just because it's past 10:00 is the _stupidest_ thing I have ever heard," he said slowly, biting off each word, finally turning to look at her. "And I'm not going to pay for it." Then he added, almost as an afterthought, "And I'm not spending the night here, either!"

"Well fine," Bubbles yelled, yanking the white, waxy slip of paper out of her sweater pocket. Wadding it up into a little ball, she threw it as hard as she could at Boomer's face, still screaming, "I don't see how one more night in prison could possibly make a difference to you, but if it really matters so much then just go ahead and leave! Take the wall down! In fact, why don't you bash up a few cop cars on your way out, injure a few police officers, and I can take the heat for- for that... too..."

She lost a lot of steam when she started crying. She absolutely hated herself for not being able to hold the tears in – which was just _stupid_, because when had she ever cared about crying before – but she couldn't help herself. In two minutes of arguing Boomer had managed to find the one weak spot he'd never been able to prey on through all their years of fighting: she couldn't be alone. Bad things happened. When she was alone, her world ended.

Completely against her will, a terrible thought flitted through her head – _and now I've got an estranged boyfriend to go with my criminal record and my ruined shoes_ – and she put her feet up on the bench, hugged her knees to her chest, and sobbed.

Before he could even realize what he was doing, Boomer began to ease away from her. He almost panicked when his hand found the end of the bench and he was still within three feet of her. He flinched, and almost bolted when she let out a particularly loud wail.

The whole crying thing wasn't foreign to him. He'd made her cry all the time when they were younger – right up through junior high - and every single time he'd gotten more sadistic glee out of it than any little boy had any right to get out of anything. Somehow, this was different. He hadn't even been trying to make her cry, and he definitely wanted it to stop as soon as was humanly possible, because he wasn't enjoying it at all. In fact, he was rather alarmed.

And he had a sinking feeling that the terrible, wriggling sensation in his gut was something dangerously close to guilt.

"Bubbles," he said slowly – or tried to say, because he only got as far as "Bu-" before he choked, and had to try again twice before he could get all of her name out with any volume. "Bubbles, look, you can't- I... I mean, I didn't- I just- Bubbles, you gotta stop crying!"

When he lapsed into silence, she lifted her head and spent a few moments staring through the bars across from them. She made a valiant effort to swallow the next sob that tried to escape, and began to wipe away all the wetness on her cheeks, but she didn't make much headway because she was still crying.

Boomer spent about a minute mouthing silently, his mind a complete, devastating blank, until Bubbles finally mumbled, "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

The sense of relief that had been creeping up on him plummeted. "Wha?" he asked, dumbfounded. "That's... that's not why you're crying, is it?"

She gave him a look and said, "No, I'm crying because you're a jerk. But I still shouldn't have yelled at you."

"What?!" he said again, his voice unnaturally high in disbelief. Now he just felt like an ass. "Yes, yes you should have! You should _still_ be yelling at me! You _should_ be mad! Furious, even! You should be attempting to beat the shit out of me right now!"

A sad, tiny smile turned the corners of her mouth upward, and she said, "I think you've got me confused with Buttercup, honey."

"Well you didn't have to apologize," he went on after a brief pause.

"Yes I did," she insisted gently, her smile growing.

"All right, look!" he asserted, pointing an accusing finger at her. "We both know you've got the moral high-ground. That's never – and I mean _ever_ – going to be an issue. But would you stop shoving it in my face so I can say I'm sorry?"

Grinning, Bubbles reached out to snag his hand. Lacing their fingers together, she said, "I'm worried an apology might send you into shock, so I've got a better idea. When that cop comes back you play the quiet game, the one where you can only answer questions directed at you, and you let me talk to him. Deal?"

He scowled, displeased that they'd come back around to that, but finally muttered, "Deal."

* * *

In the end they got her home before 3:00 AM, and she was only grounded for a month. They spent the entire trip home arguing about whether or not it would have been ethical for Bubbles to just explain to the cop who she was – because that had been Boomer's first suggestion the second they'd been left alone in that jail cell, and Bubbles had flat out refused, convinced that it was a misuse of power and completely mortified of what Blossom would think if she ever found out. She knew he'd be teasing her about it for at least the next week.

Bubbles had the good sense to send Boomer on his way before opening the front door and facing her fate, so they'd kissed their goodnights on the sidewalk out front.

When she finally stepped away from him, he said, "Not that I wanna make it a habit, but if I have to spend half a night in jail with someone, you make pretty good company."

Laughing, she replied, "Goodnight," with as much finality as she could muster and nudged him gently in the general direction of his home.

* * *

**AN**: Well, it's time for a new fandom. What'll y'all think, new fandom people?


End file.
